Just A Little Longer
by White Maid
Summary: Miles Upsher is dying, there's no doubt. But what he doesn't know, is that the Walrider, is still there. And so is the doctor. ( Will be continued.)
1. Mine

Riddled with bullet holes, the poor reporter was. However, the madman couldn't say he felt pity for the running and dying SWAT men. Even Wernicke, that poor and damned dying man was pressing himself far back in his wheelchair, eyes wide as the doors soon closed.

The Walrider was doing his work.

Both eyes, hidden by the two totally different monocle's, drifted down over the body of Miles Upsher, his eyes closed and his entire body wounded or bloody. The snipped fingers made him smirk behind the medical mask before he was kneeling in front of the other. There was no doubt that the tired reporter was dead, after all of the Hell he had been put through.

But, his eyes soon widened as he noticed something that shouldn't have been there.

Miles was still breathing. A hand fell upon the male's tattered chest, barely brushing the clothing before finding its way up to his parted lips. Yes. It was there but faint.

Trager was soon picking the wounded male up, positioning his head right on his skeletal shoulder. Those hidden eyes soon glanced to the parting doors, the Walrider standing there in all of his glory. Black smoked snaked around him, leaving that skeletal form to be more eerie than what it should be.

However, the doctor had no fear ripple down his spine before he spoke, his voice having that same amused drawl to it that made Miles practically freeze up. "I'm sorry, but find someone else. This one is mine."

The Walrider stared with no eyes for a while longer before he let his head tip to the side, as if to ask _"Why?"_ but by then, Trager was leaving right for the cafeteria. Utensils there would help with removing the bullets...and saving Miles for a longer ride in Hell.

The madman looked down at the angelic face of the dying reporter and couldn't help but wonder what the hell this man was expecting when he woke up.


	2. Seems We're Both Alive

Miles Upsher figured he would see the light when he would re-open his eyes. Or, perhaps, God had completely abandoned him and this asylum to no longer care. To no longer care for his well being and wishes.

The reporter squeezed his eyes shut a bit tighter and, indeed, felt his own lashes grace his cheekbones. Yet, he feared to open his eyes, to exam the coarse, dull light above him and see if he would be accepting God's hand. He let out a sigh but regretted it, feeling pain just slam into his broken body. Gasping, his eyes flew open, revealing a broken light above him.

He knew darkness was surrounding. And Miles knew exactly where he was still. In that damned and unforgivable asylum that was sure to swarm him with nightmares of Hell itself. Without warning, the light turned away from his face and he flinched lightly, feeling pinpricks of pain grind into his muscles. Another flinch.

"Well~, look who's back from the dead! I was wondering about you, buddy." If Miles could've shrieked, he probably would've but he found he had no voice, nor did his lips move. He attempted to shoot upright but he found he could not, the leather straps tight around his arms and ankles as they held him against the table. Only God knew what was on it...

"Hey, hey, hey~, calm down." The Doctor chuckled and leaned over him. "You look like you've seen a ghost. No, I'm alive." The male patted around his stomach and chest area before both hands settled on where the elevator had cut into him. Miles was confused but soon narrowed his eyes. Trager took a step back away from the other, chuckling to himself. "Don't give me that look, now. I saved your life and you should be greatful!"

Miles blinked then decided to go ahead and look down towards his chest, pulling his chin in. Why was he not surprised that he was completely stark-naked? And yet, he was bandaged. Those bandages were fresh, unused..._clean_.

"Now you see it," the male murmured, standing over him one more and setting both of his hands just on either side of the reporter's head. "The good deed I've done. And considering I know you have questions~, I'll remove this." The male flinched away from the other's hands as best as he could but the male soon had his jaw. Slowly, the gag was removed from Miles' lips and the reporter took the time to let his tongue run right over his dry lips. Cracked and bloody they were, in need of much repair as the rest of his bullet-holed body. But then he wondered...as to how no bullets had entered his heart?

Trager was already moving off somewhere before he could say a single word. Now that the light was off of him and he was no longer staring at the insane figure, he took the time to look around the room. It was as filthy as ever, blood caking the mirrors nearby and those damned shears still in the urinals just nearby. And right in the center of the room was the wheelchair. The vomit had been cleaned but it was all...just the same room of god damned horrors.

"Boy, you should see the look on your face~." Trager snickered loudly into his hand before he was making his way back over. The male felt the doctor's fingers run through his hair, mainly to torment him. With a hiss, he attempted to snap his teeth around his hand. Fingers were immediately wrapping around his mouth, keeping him still. "You really are a persistent bastard. Maybe this will wake you up."

The reporters eyes widened before he shut his eyes tightly, the shears coming dangerously close to his face and eyes. "See~? I haven't cut you yet. You're just the one assuming I'm going to kill you later. Maybe I _should've _left you to the Walrider."

Ah! That was right! He had been taken over, hadn't he? Those damned fingers enclosing around his throat and throwing him around like a rag doll. The black tendrils of smoke rising up and enslaving him to whatever god damned deed was in store.

The shears edged closer as he opened his eyes and Miles couldn't help but stare at the blood-dyed edges. His heartrate picked up and he gritted his teeth. Those shears snipped together and a lock of the male's hair fell onto his face, then drifted over his cheek. "Release me...Trager..." His voice, as dry as bone, faintly filtered out from his throat. The Doctor suddenly tipped his head back and laughed, carelessly letting the shears drop close to the male's neck. Miles flinched.

"Ahaha~! Finally! You're no longer mute, buddy! But boy do you sound like shit. Here, let me help with that." Dear God the reporter did _not _want to know and simply shook his head wildly. However, Trager was no longer paying attention to him and was waltzing over to the nearby sink. Hearing water run made him immediately think of the sewers. He felt like he would vomit.

All blood drained from his face as he thought about those damned tunnels of blood, all of it pooling from the dead that stank up the asylum. Trager came back only to pour quite a bit of water into the male's mouth. Miles almost choked and swallowed, only to have a series of coughing fits. Turning his head to the side, blood and water sprayed over the edge of the table. Trager hummed.

"Maybe I should've given that to you slower. Oh well." He turned away once again to set it on a nearby table, momentarily leaving the reporter to try and regain his breath. Despite the sudden drop of the liquid in his mouth, already, he felt a bit better than before. "At least now you can answer some of _my _questions and I can answer yours."

Miles watched him now, raising an eyebrow slowly. Trager sat on the edge of the cold table and seemed to shrugged lightly. "Well~, first of all, what's your name?" The male couldn't believe it. Why was the doctor, who had cut off his fingers with the shears over nearby, suddenly asking him these friendly questions. His lips parted once more.

"Miles. ...Miles Upsher." Trager nodded lightly then put a hand on his own chest, right above the sternum. "Richard Trager~ at your service for all of your special needs in the ER. And I need your help, honestly." He tapped Miles' nose, who blinked furiously.

"...W-With _what?" _Richard shrugged lightly before he answer, getting way too close for Miles' sake.

"Simple. I want to see if you can restore the asylum~! I mean, you've gotten this far, let's see if you can try again and escape with a limb or two still." Miles swallowed slowly, feeling fear settle right back into his gut and coil like a snake. The man was truly nuts if he thought Miles could restore this damned place.

"What do you say? Is it a deal~?"

Miles stared for quite some time at the doctor in silent before he opened his mouth...


	3. A Deal is a Deal

"No way in hell."

Richard wasn't surprised as he knitted his fingers together in front of his stomach, those slender digits faintly tapping along his skeletal hands. "Let me guess, is it because the one who sold your fingers is the one who's asking~?"

"No," Miles repeated, his eyes narrowing quickly at the male. "It's because I'm leaving now. And I mean _now._"

"Pfft." The doctor made a noise with his lips, or, what was left of them. "C'mon, Miles~. Be a man and take it like one too. Y'know, up the ass." The look Miles gave him was simply priceless, clearly provoking a laugh from the insane man. "Fine, fine~. I get it. But, then, you're just staying here with me then."

That was _exactly_ how he was going to be. The asshole that wouldn't let his cute little captive go lest he wished to do the big favor. Judging by the disgusted look on the male's face, the doctor shrugged and slowly pulled away from the male, figuring he was right.

"What~? Don't give me that look. I'll only let you go if you actually think about it."

"To hell I will. This is an insane asylum and I almost died. TWICE!"

"Or more."

"Exactly. So why should I stay?"

Slowly, the doctor answered, walking around casually around the table of the bare-skinned reporter. "You know...there are other things to help than yourself," he murmured, so low that Miles strained to hear them. "We may be mad, mad, murderer's Miles Upsher. But that doesn't mean we love it here." His nails dragged along the male's open thigh and the reporter flinched. "We don't want to roll in our own filth. And yet, we don't know what blood is. What death is... And you're the only one to get out alive and let us go with you."

Miles seemed to think now, surprised but soon flinched away at the sudden approach of the male, who now loomed over him, those hands curling against the leather straps that held him still. "You and you alone, Miles~. What do you say, buddy? Do we have a deal~?"

* * *

"You said it was this way."

"No, not _that_ way. _That _way."

"Will be more specific if you're telling me where to go."

"Well, if you get your head out of your journal and the clouds, we might get somewhere."

"You're the one who's capable of walking around here!"

"Doesn't mean I'm the only capable of attention."

"I've been running away from certain people, Trager!"

"Hey, what'd I ever do to you?"

Miles thrusted his hands up to the male's face, one of them holding up the camera the doctor had confiscated temporarily somewhere in an old filing cabinet. Those hands were bandaged but, even so, they still made the doctor smirk.

"Oh, that~? You're still miffed about that~?" At the ending drawl, the doctor wiggled his fingers along the back of the male's neck. Miles felt all goosebumps lay out on his skin before he danced out of the way, throwing his journal in his face.

"Don't do that!"

"What?"

"THAT!"

The doctor cackled, unable to help himself as he leaned against a wall, holding his chest. Miles sniffed irritably and received the journal from the ground before walking off briskly in one direction. He didn't care anymore if he ran into anything. This man was the biggest annoyance he had ever come across in his lifetime.

"Hey, hey~, don't leave without me buddy~." The doctor snaked an arm around Miles's neck, proving the height difference between them. Miles thrashed around but soon quit, figuring it would only satisfy the male.

"You seem perfectly capable on your own," the male retorted, sneering rather confidently. A pair of shears snipped loudly in front of his face and he recoiled immediately back into the other. As much as he didn't want to.

"And you're not. Now stop being a god damn baby about this and continue on. Like a good boy. Actually, I should keep you on a leash." The male prodded the other's cheek with the sharp shears and Miles had to close his eyes to make sure the damn blades didn't just suddenly jab into his eye. He didn't answer and the doctor pulled away...only to viciously ruffle his hair.

"Hey-!"

"Thought you would like a new make-over," the doctor explained quickly, beginning to walk off with a confident pounce to his walk. Miles stared at the male's bare back. "Oh, you foul, foul, asshole."

The madman only chuckled and continued on, the corridors endless, the people staring and the halls filled with blood. Maybe it was his own? Licking his lips, Miles continued on with the doctor in front and he made sure not to stare at him. ...His backside was _right there. _God. Did these people know nothing of decency?

Oh. Wait.

The more the two walked, the more memories Miles seemed to get back. Chris Walker chasing him, the other madmen trying to strangle him and maybe even beat him to death... Glancing to the side, he suddenly gained a sense of nausea, his entire body beginning to cave forward. "Whoa!" An arm was winding around his shoulders, keeping him just inches from smacking into the ground. "Huh, guess I should've gotten you something from the cafeteria for eating purposes. Oh well, too late now. I got you your clothes back. So we're fine."

Miles groaned faintly as he was being slung over the doctor's shoulder. "Who knows? Maybe I can just remove your stomach and you won't have to eat. Much less take a shit or worry about half of what your body does. Oh, wait, nutrition. That's a tricky one. Ah, well." He shrugged.

"Put me...down...you sack of shit."

"Nope~." Miles groaned but didn't struggle against the other. Not when he was healing and that he could see the same shears that cut off his very fingers. The arm around his waist was strong and kept him still against the doctor's broad shoulder. No point in moving.

Once again, the doctor walked with that same cat-like sway to his hips-oh god damnit he was looking right down the male's bare back. "Do you even try clothes? It might do you some good to have _some decency." _The doctor snorted loudly, walking further into the blood-stained and eerily silent hallways. "Clothes? What's the point of having those around here?"

Miles didn't answer. God damn this man-Oh. This place was familiar. Way too familiar. He glanced around the room, noticing the two open lockers from when Chris had opened it and when he had opened his own to escape. And those cameras... Father Martin, the psycho priest, was no where on the screens. He was glad for that. "What are we here for again?" he asked, as the male plopped him down in a chair.

"Looking for your favorite friend~," the male purred, typing in a few keys along the keyboard slowly. "And we're also here to see the rest of the place that needs to be worked on and removed to let us get out of here."

"Can't we just blow a hole in wall?"

"Think Wernicke or Walrider would like that idea? Y'know, to see a big-ass, gaping hole leading outside, what do you think might happen?"

"You all are no better."

The look the madman gave him was incredibly vicious, to the point Miles nearly bit his tongue off as he flinched back. Those eyes, even behind the two monocles, were horribly narrowed at him, as if daring for him to even breathe. He didn't do such. "And what of you, Miles Upsher?"

The reporter blinked but had no time to answer as those shears came close to his neck. Ah, he responded this time, kicking out and into the doctor's stomach. Air escaped out of the male's lungs immediately as Miles moved to get up and run away from the wrath of the madman. Those blades sliced right into his thigh and through the cushioned chair. A cry of pain ripped from his throat before he was backhanded. His cry was cut off mid-way.

Pain branched up his thigh and into his pelvic bone, his cheek throbbing from the heavy hit. "You are no better than those that spit insults, that struggle to get out of here, to find the life source. And _you...YOU _have the sense and lack of knowledge to try and put us in our own _category!" _The doctor leaned close, clamping his hand firmly around Miles' jaw, forcing their eyes to meet. He tried to pull back but this man, despite his skeletal figure, he was incredibly strong.

"You sane people are the worst type of swine. And if you decide to say one insult towards me, I'll give you torture that would be worse than the tormenting of the Walrider. Am. I. Clear?"

His heart racing, the reporter couldn't even nod his head in the iron clamp around his jaw but he feared to speak. "_Well!?" _He flinched and parted his lips. "Y...Yes." The doctor stared at him, scrutinizing him entirely before letting go slowly. Now there was a horrible ache in Miles's jaw but he was quick to forget about it as the shears were ripped from his thigh. A broken gasped escaped his mouth and he clutched his leg, despite his bandaged hands. The doctor didn't seem to care and began to type once more.

One by one, the security cameras, those that worked, flipped on and provided static pictures. Some flickered, some winked and others were completely fine. Both of them looked through the pictures, searching for several beings that could cause trouble. But Miles didn't stay focused for long, bent over his bleeding leg.

It stung like all hell, but he swallowed every hiss and gasp that attempted to bubble past his lips. He almost jumped out of his skin at the doctor's exclaimed, "Ooh!" He followed the suddenly pointing finger towards one of the screens. "There!" Miles looked up and felt cold fear clutch his throat.

That black, familiar mass was floating around in the entrance hall, lurking, watching and... Wait. Entrance Hall?! Miles could've fainted, had it not been for the hands that were suddenly shoving him into one of the lockers. Cramped. So cramped.

He decided it was best not to say anything as he watched the doctor work with shutting down the computer in quick fluid motions of his fingers on the keyboard. In seconds, he jumped in with Miles and shut the door. _Way _too cramped. And it didn't help that the doctor was now helping him stay off his newly injured leg by keeping him up against the wall. That's why he joined.

Miles felt a hand clamp over his mouth before he could protest and he held back a gagging noise. The male wreaked of blood and smelled of rotten corpses. "Shh~, I know you don't like this but he's coming. Looking for you, I'm sure." But the hand didn't move, which Miles detested.

The doctor forced his own back against the opposite side of the locker as his eyes stared over Miles's shoulder. The reporter risked it and glanced out of the small slits in the locker and looked away immediately. He was already passing by, causing his heart to race in his chest. He remembered its face, that looming, skeletal frame and face that soon stabbed itself into his body. He shuddered.

They stayed in there for the longest time, Miles having completely forgotten about the smell that made his stomach twist. "We're good. He's gone." Those fingers removed themselves from his lips, allowing him to faintly breathe once again and leave first thing.

Trager chuckled and walked out slowly with that same cat-like sway to his steps. "What? Can't handle a little bit of me, Upsher?" The reporter merely held up his middle finger behind him and regretted it quick when the doctor neatly but damn near snapped it back. "Hmph. Still as stupid as ever. Should I go get him?"

"Get off of me," he hissed and his finger was pulled back more, agonizing pain filling his whole hand.

"No. Maybe I should just dissect you until you give into me and know that your _beneath _me. And that I'm not receiving orders from you. Next time, I'm going to shove you into him, and then you'll wonder as to why you didn't shut up."

Miles swallowed but said no more and ripped his hand away. "I've saved your life. Twice, one being now. If you're going to get out of here, then you've gotta shut up at some point and being a good boy. A deal...is a deal, Miles."

The reporter watched him skeptically but soon glanced away, grunting softly. "Fine." Trager nodded slowly and soon jutted a finger over to the cameras. "Let's get to know the place then again. You and I~"

First stop to gather madmen: Everywhere. But Miles now had a different plan. This deal would be broken. Starting when he left.


	4. Lone Survivor

Trager watched the male practically shove the sandwich down his windpipe, proving his wild hunger. The doctor gave a smirk behind his torn mask before adjusting both monocles with almost a smug movement. "And you call us beasts, yet you're scarfing down that food like it's no ones business."

The reporter swallowed heavily and loudly, only speaking after gulping down half of a glass of water. Well, it certainly seemed he didn't care about any form of pollution or piss in the water system. For now, anyway. "I've been running away from you and a bunch of others. You can't tell me that any normal person wouldn't be starving from lack of energy, _doctor._"

Richard noticed the sneer in the male's voice and his fingers tightened incredibly along the seat he sat in. He swore he left dents as he wondered how this ungrateful bastard wasn't halfway dead yet in his hands. A low snarl left his hidden lips.

"You ungrateful manwhore..." the doctor hissed, narrowing his eyes. Miles merely gave him a look and frowned. "And what did I do now?" But the doctor was already getting up and leaving the area. He had had _enough _of that little shit. If the male didn't want his help in getting out and only thought for himself, then the insane doctor was going to bring this entire building to freedom.

Slowly, Trager breathed through his pinched lips and seemed to think, lightly leaning back and avoiding eye contact from Miles in the doorway. The boy was probably planning to leave by his lonesome, leaving them all stuck in this mental institute for life. Or, what was left of it. The only way out was through the front doors, and he knew those were locked tight, barricaded and the keys lost. Not surprising in this territory. Surely there was a way to convince the boy to let everyone out. At least to where they could die in the woods. Better be eaten by wolves than insanity that wormed into the brain and consumed every inch of your soul. Oh, wait, that was Walrider.

A series of steps soon echoed behind the male but he didn't move to turn around as he looked around this floor. ...Oh that was right. Miles _did _happen to stop all of those red flames from reaching the ceiling, didn't he? Those black scorch marks still remained soaked from the water sprinklers above. "...I'm curious," he murmured, now looking to the male now beside him. "Why didn't you let this place crumble to the ground?"

"...Because I needed information," he replied, looking at Trager once and then to the view before them. Ah, that was right, he was a reporter.

A sneer planted itself on his mouth but he hid it from his voice. "It was because you were following the priest, wasn't it? That little makeshift priest that claimed God would save us all. _Pt!_" He pretended to spit onto the floor. "Now he knows that he probably went to Limbo for his stupidity. Oh well~."

Trager began to walk through the area, knowing that the Walrider wouldn't come in here until a little bit later. Miles didn't know that. "Hm, from what I can recall," the doctor murmured, catching his attention, "he makes his routes around here in about a minute or so." Yup, he had noticed this thanks to just those few cameras. Actually, no, he was just flat-out guessing. But he enjoyed the stunned look on Miles's face.

"Start snapping open the windows. Doors will remain open whenever we pass through so that way-"

"I know, Trager."

Again, the snobbish remarks. Honestly, the doctor wasn't pissed anymore about it. He just wanted to slam his face into the wall so many times he'd crack his own skull right in two. ...Oh he'd have to try that on a patient later. Did the skull crack in jagged places and reveal the brain? Was it a thin and perfect crack? Oho~.

Rolling his wide shoulders, feeling the IV in his arms faintly move as well, he began to walk through the area, bare feet scuffing along the floor like a bored child now. However, he casted his gaze out the window and frowned faintly. It was no longer raining but did the sun shine? Pfft, what kind of question was that? The sun didn't shine at all. Never did it, and never would it.

A hot white crack echoed from his back, fresh pain riddling up his breaking spine. His roar echoed through the whole area, even down to his own room which startled the patients to a daze. Landing on his stomach, he felt blood begin to coat the inside of his hospital mask, that warm fluid crawling down his back.

He glanced up and over his left shoulder, Miles standing above him with a crowbar in his hands. How did he get that!? The doctor reached for his shears immediately and he cried out again, eyes tightly shutting at the new pain as the crowbar plunged through his palm.

"Fucking little shit!" With the horrible twist and crack of his hand, he tugged his hand out of the weapon and immediately removed the shears from his belt to snap them at Miles. The reporter danced out of the way, his face paling incredibly before he turned on his heel and took off.

Trager, slowly moving to his feet, felt his muscles contorting in pain, causing a hiss of pain to unravel from his lips. "...You...mother fucker..." Pressing his bleeding back against the wall, he caught a low and whining snicker that echoed through the room, causing him to look around. Standing nearby, floating like a black genie was the Walrider in all of his glory, arms folded. Trager groaned.

"Fuck off, Walrider. Miles is _mine._" At that, the Walrider made a gesture around him, as if to say as to what made Miles his, considering the reporter was long gone. "...We had...a fucking deal, Upsher." He took in a breath and bellowed out his next words. **_"WE HAD A FUCKING DEAL, YOU PIECE OF SHIT! _**_I'm going to fucking throttle you, rip your bones and drink your fucking marrow!" __  
_

Never had the doctor been this mad. Never had the Walrider been this amused. Never had the hospital echoed like this.

And Miles had never feared for his life like now.

* * *

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Miles ran, his heart throbbing up high in his throat and windpipe, making it hard to breathe as he sprinted over tables, around tousled furniture and through doors that were unlocked. Every wound he had now burned like the pain of a thousand suns, but that didn't stop him. He was confused and absolutely fearing his life. What had happened? One minute the Walrider had been standing behind Trager, ready to choke him. He had taken the crowbar and attempted to smash it into his back, and he had thought he had sunk into Trager's body. Apparently not.

Now the doctor was getting ready to practically cook him like a new Happy Kid's Meal. He remember the deal, that he did but it wasn't his fault that the Walrider had nearly made him shit his pants. But...how had he disappeared like that? Oh, right, ghost wasn't he?

Sliding on his heels, he slithered right into a locker that he would probably stay in the for the longest of time. His wounds, bullet holes, fingers and his leg all throbbed in pain as he sank down into the very corners of the cold metal hiding spot, breathing heavily and wrapping his arms around himself. Despite himself, he wished for his mother. His parents. His bed...

With a shaky sigh, he put his sweating forehead on his knees, shivering uncontrollably as he kept the camera close to him. "...God damnit. I'm really going to have to get out of here alone, aren't I?" His voice softened to a heavy murmur now as he turned his head, letting himself face away from the locker door. "...I didn't mean to Trager. ...God damnit. He won't listen to shit I say. It's going to be either kill or be killed. And I will _not _be his prey. _I _am the sane one, _I _am the one that will become the top reporter. _I am the survivor." _

With those thoughts circulating through his mind, Miles Upsher did the only taboo within this hellhole. He fell asleep, hugging his camera and staying inside the locker.


	5. An Idea

How long had it been since he had fallen asleep? What time of day was it? Where was he again?

Oh, right.

Miles didn't crack open an eye, not wanting to open them to the world he had finally escaped in a dark abyss. Sleep had been such a sweet and blissful thing, he almost prayed to go back to sleep. Ah, no such thing.

Softly sighing, he moved to pull away from his own knees, feeling every muscle kink in his neck and back. Oh, it hurt a _lot_. A soft hiss echoed from his mouth as he attempted to snap his head one side and then to the next, attempting to remove the kinks as he rubbed his shoulders. Shocks of pain went up his spine and he flinched. Lovely.

Carefully, he moved after a little bit, inch by inch and soon he was allowing himself to stand in the freezing locker.

Peering out through the small slits of the locker, he couldn't see much of anything, just ominous darkness and an abyss of horror. The normal. Despite how he had recently eaten, hunger and thirst gnawed on the tip of his tongue, causing him to feel even more like shit. He wreaked of blood, felt as if he had ran through the sewers again and wondered if he had been asleep for centuries. But he was scared to go out. Fearful of it.

The Walrider was surely still around…and that was what made him absolutely sick to his stomach. Trager was now after his hide, alive and surely wielding those damn bone-shears.

He bent down to slowly pick up his camera, which beeped angrily at him about the low battery. It flashed violently on the screen, causing him to sigh and flip the camera open, pop in a new battery, and then put it back up to his face.

Upon seeing a face right in the tiny windows, as he looked up, he let out a very faint and dry-throated shriek before he leaped back, slamming his head against the locker with a bang. His heart hammered right in his throat as he heard the man in front of him snicker. "You hear him, brother? He can't even scream."

"He must've screamed all the way back here to get that camera of his." Miles went as pale as a sheet. Why in hell's name were the brother's here? To torment him? Seemed likely.

A meaty arm tore open the locker door and then immediately groped for Miles. He felt the front of his jacket become grabbed and he was dragged out. "No! Get off of me, you pieces of shit! Get off!" The male held onto Miles like a lifeline, no matter what he did.

A hand was taking up the camera he had dropped, examining it slowly and soon simply messing with the night-vision. This pissed Miles off quite a bit as he kicked backwards and up. His aim was perfect as he was able to hit the family jewels of the brother that held him. He crumbled to the ground faster than an actual cookie, allowing Miles to get free, grab his camera from the other, and run.

The male glanced behind him once just as he got out of the doorway, seeing the brother not even trying to get to his feet. Miles frowned, turned around and smacked into a new pair of foes. Stumbling back, feeling all of his original wounds yelling at him, the male turned on his heel to bolt in the other direction. He nearly slammed into another pair of arms.

Miles was caught, doing a 360 and seeing nothing but more and more vigilantes. They were everywhere, up and down the hallways, contorted faces looking at him with such curiosity that he paused right in his tracks. "…What?" he barked.

Some didn't make a sound while others chirped or groaned in response, looking to one another then back at him. Miles had no idea what was going on, feeling his heart pound as he filmed them all with the camcorder. They didn't seem to care.

"We caught word of you trying to help us," a brother mumbled, causing Miles to turn back to the room he had previously been hiding in. "Ya see, we all want outta here. We understand that, despite what you think. You already betrayed us once, hitting Trager in the back like that. You also let the Walrider loose on us all again. What do you have to say for yourself?"

Criticized. That's how he felt. Examined. Blamed. Hated. Different.

His anger bubbled up inside of him faster than he could've thought possible and it didn't take him long to start shrieking like all of the madman he had seen. Or maybe he was becoming one himself… "Oh yeah!? And!? Can you understand me then? No, you big-headed faggots! Why don't you wallow off somewhere and leave me be, huh!? I'm not insane, I'm not mad, and I'm going. HOME. Good-fucking-bye and good riddance!"

Turning sharply on his heel, Miles began shoving his way through the crowd, kicking shins, ankles and whatever else he could to get the hell out of there. A man threw himself at the reporter, clinging to his leg viciously. "You can't!" he garbled, clutching tighter. "Take us with you, take us with yooouuu!"

"Get off of me you filthy pest!" Kicking out at the man, he heard his heel slam into the man's jaw and nose. A sickening crack filled the air and made many of them cringe away incredibly fast. Miles didn't notice, much less care. All he wanted to do was get out.

He ran once more, feeling his blood rush through every vein he had, his legs already aching horribly. Why couldn't they leave him alone!? That's all he wanted from them, to be left the fuck alone!

Miles looked back and forth, unsure of what floor he was on. What corridor he was in, the wing he stood in… He removed his journal from his pocket and moved to write on it. Ah… No pen, and his bandaged fingers, surely fat and raw, were unable to even dare hold any other utensil aside from his own camera. Miles sighed, catching his breath as he stood there and soon peered through the item. He started walking soon enough, feet echoing on the floorboards softly.

Everything was suddenly much more subtle than before, his camcorder catching everything within the shadows and his battery slowly ticking away every minute. Miles felt all of his adrenaline crash on him and his walking pace felt so much slower.

With a hand on the wall, he continued to his descent towards the ground floor, limping faintly now. After a bit longer, he tried windows and every other unlocked door. It became more and more quiet aside from the faint whispers of insanity. Or was it the Walrider? He couldn't tell. All he knew was that he wanted to go home. Just opened a door soon enough, poking his head in and immediately jumping back about ten feet from fright, to examine the other male in front of him. "H-Huh?"

Miles's eyes searched the face of a rather unruly young man, coffee hair extremely messy and his bright brown eyes wide and red in the whites. His clothes were tattered and blood-dyed from head to toe, his hands as pale as grey snow and his face contorted in pain and fright. "…Is that…?" The male moved forward to examined the cracked mirror, putting his fingertips on the breaking glass. "…That's me?"

Softly, those dirty, bandaged hands grazed the crumbling mirror, tiny fragments of crystal tumbling to the floor with a majestic noise. Dirty orbs glanced to the same pair before they closed. Everything, in seconds, washed away in a whisper in his head as he remembered first becoming a reporter, washing his face in the white-wash basin of the men's restroom. He was sweating, nervous, quivering...

_"Upsher." He jumped lightly, soon glancing over his shoulder towards the door leading out into the office halls. A finely dressed man quirked an eyebrow at him and nodded once, this faint smile on his lips. Ah, he must've known how nervous he was. _

_Miles waved him off. "I know, I know. I'll be out soon." This seemed to please the other and he left the other to his cleaning-up. _

_Miles looked back at the rough-looking man in the mirror, feeling along his jawline and feeling a single spot of faint stubble he had missed this morning after his shower. He grunted, looking displeased before glancing to his attire._

_ It was simple enough. He had thrown on a fine jacket this morning, slipped on a pair of jeans and new shoes he had bought yesterday afternoon. Too bad he overlooked the price and the comfort. His feet were already killing his toes. Rolling his heels with a terrible wince, he soon shook his head and used a paper towel to wipe at his face._

_Trashing it, he walked out with a faint sigh, popping a mint in his mouth. "Well, here you go, Miles. Don't screw up..."_

Eyes opened slowly, the hired reporter looked over the mirror once more before he began to turn around. Something caught his eye and he glanced around slowly, raising an eyebrow. A file of papers happened to be sitting nearby, practically glowing.

"Huh," he murmured, picking it up from the split desk. "I always seem to find these. They practically glow." He opened the files, beginning to flip through the many pages comfortably. Paperwork, experiments, lack of doctors, unknown diseases...

_Plunk._

Miles jumped a bit and soon glanced down, realizing something must've fell from the files and to his feet. Curious, he bent down and picked it up slowly between his aching fingers. Too thick they were from the gauze and he couldn't grab it properly. After a little game of cat-and-mouse, his anger got the better of him and he slammed his fingers into the floor to get it.

Hearing his fingers crack, either broken, sprained or merely popped, he howled in pain, clutching his right hand close to him with a series of hisses, multiple curses and mumbles. This time, slowly, he reached with his left hand to pick up the object, his camera moving into the crook of his right arm.

"Fucking finally," he cursed, moving to stand and hold it up to his face. "...A lighter? A lighter..." He glanced around him, examining the crumbled walls and the dry wood. A wicked grin spread over his lips and he looked back at it, the fluid half-way full. Oh this was perfect. ...For a moment it was.

Shifting his fingers faintly resulted in something as bad as feeling his camera fall from his fingers. The lighter did too and right through a way-too-perfect-to-be-normal crack in the floor. A desperate, animalistic whine left his lips as he tried to grope for it but it was already going down into the lower floors, disappearing. He peered through the crack, mentally throwing a fit.

"Oh~, there you are~." Miles felt his fingers suddenly go cold as he looked down through the crack as someone looked up. Richard Trager was holding the lighter, tossing it up and down in his hands with a gleam of insanity in his eyes. The doctor was suddenly sprinting upward towards the nearest flight of stairs.

"...Fuck," Miles began, standing and beginning to run out of the room, "my LIFE!"


End file.
